The tears choked my further speech. I sat down on the sofa, and, with
my head buried on Papa's knees, sobbed until I thought I should die of
grief.

"Come, come! Why are you such a water-pump?" said Papa compassionately,
as he stooped over me.

"He is such a bully! He is murdering me! I shall die! Nobody loves me at
all!" I gasped almost inaudibly, and went into convulsions.

Papa lifted me up, and carried me to my bedroom, where I fell asleep.

When I awoke it was late. Only a solitary candle burned in the room,
while beside the bed there were seated Mimi, Lubotshka, and our doctor.
In their faces I could discern anxiety for my health, so, although
I felt so well after my twelve-hours' sleep that I could have got up
directly, I thought it best to let them continue thinking that I was
unwell.




XVII. HATRED

Yes, it was the real feeling of hatred that was mine now--not the hatred
of which one reads in novels, and in the existence of which I do
not believe--the hatred which finds satisfaction in doing harm to a
fellow-creature, but the hatred which consists of an unconquerable
aversion to a person who may be wholly deserving of your esteem, yet
whose very hair, neck, walk, voice, limbs, movements, and everything